


lay your roots

by monograph



Series: and mist wreathes the valley [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27175333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monograph/pseuds/monograph
Summary: The seasons are cyclical. Everything is cyclical.---Minho, who has found a home in the mountains and in Jisung, grapples with an unnamed fear, and in the process discovers that his roots are deeper than he thinks.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Series: and mist wreathes the valley [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983562
Comments: 18
Kudos: 107
Collections: MINSUNG SEASON: Colourful Autumn 2020





	lay your roots

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of [@minsungseason](https://twitter.com/minsungseason)! The colour inspiration for this fic is green and its associations with growth and nature.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Sat for reading through this and for her constant support, feedback and insights. Check out her brilliant works [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satellite_Of_Love/pseuds/Satellite_Of_Love)
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading it!

What people don’t understand is that time brings change whether you want it or not. That change is not always by your design. 

The soup starts bubbling and the curling steam invites him on a sojourn to memories past. He resists the temptation and switches off the gas. He rummages through the drawers to find bowls then remembers that he had washed it yesterday evening and left them near the sink to dry. The sink is right beside him. He shakes his head with an embarrassed smile. It’s strange how many things you miss even if they are right in front of you when lost in thought.

Yesterday, it had rained. The temperature has fallen and Minho, who usually contends himself with protein shakes and omelettes in the mornings, gives into the demands of the weather and has cooked a hearty meal. It has nothing to do, of course, with his slumbering boyfriend.

He accidentally sloshes some soup over his thumb as he pours it into the bowl, and grits his teeth against the flare of pain. He had been too distracted to look. The reason for his distraction sparks first in his mind and then in his belly. It is a soothing, blanketing warmth but the moment it wraps around him; it sends a lance of fear to his spine.

He takes the soup to the table, avoids looking out of the window and at his garden. He places it on the dining table – a new addition and a much beloved one – and then goes back for the rice and the sides. Once the chopsticks are placed on the table, he has no choice but to get Jisung before the soup cools.

The stairs creak under his socked feet and wind whispers through the trees that guard the sides of the house and peer into the windows that face them. Their leaves are still green and plenty – it’s only the beginning of October after all – but as he studies their crown, he knows that there will be a lot of leaves to rake today.

Minho opens the door to his room and steps inside. The curtains are drawn and they colour the bone-white walls a soft blue as sunlight streams past their fabric. Jisung is curled into a ball under the blankets with not a single tuft of hair exposed to the air.

“Jisung,” Minho says, patting what he hopes is Jisung’s shoulder. “Jisung, wake up. I made breakfast.”

Much to his amusement, Jisung scrambles to unwind himself from his blankets and pops his head out. “What time is it?” he asks, voice hoarse and panicked. “Shit!” he sits up and as the blankets pool around his waist, Minho sees that he is wearing a polo on top of his thermal shirt.

“Eight thirty.” Minho tugs at the knots on Jisung’s sleep-mussed hair. They snag on his fingers.

“Fuck,” Jisung huffs, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes, “I wanted to wake up early and help you out today!”

Minho brushes his thumb over a bruise on the side of Jisung’s neck. He remembers how his skin had tasted. “You had a tiring time yesterday,” he teases, digging his thumb into Jisung’s skin. “I understand.”

Jisung smacks his ass. “Ugh. Stop being so annoying.” His smile turns impish as he squeezes Minho’s cheek. “Maybe I should start returning the favour since you are so obsessed with smacking my–”

“The soup is getting cold,” Minho interrupts, ears heating a little. He gently grasps Jisung’s wrist and then shoves it into his chest. Jisung yelps and falls flat on his back. “Come on, get up.”

Jisung grumbles, but the next moment he is smiling so widely that Minho wants to pounce on him and mark him up even more. “Come on,” he repeats, shoving his hands into his pocket. He turns on his heels and leaves before his feet can carry him towards Jisung.

───────

He is not able to control himself and glances out of the garden and finds that his vegetable garden is a mess. He had been meaning to harvest the last of his tomatoes and herbs today, but it looks like he’ll be salvaging rather than harvesting anything. Frustration builds behind his eyes and he drags the chair out with enough force that it screeches in protest.

He is on his second bite of food when Jisung emerges, a band holding his hair back from his face and his face pink. He has rolled his sleeves to his elbow and when he pauses to press a kiss to Minho’s temple, the fruity scent of his facewash drifts to him.

“This is so amazing. I mean all the food you cook is amazing but this is just perfect with the way the weather is right now.” Jisung rubs his hands together as he walks over to the other side.

It takes Minho a few seconds to find his voice. “Felix, my friend from the city, cooks much better than me,” he croaks, avoiding Jisung’s eyes. “Every dish he cooks comes out great.”

Jisung hums as he takes a bite. “I always think your cooking is the best.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “You’re just saying that because I’m the one who feeds you every time you ask,” he jokes. The food tastes good, but he isn’t able to focus on it because the moment he swallows, it feels like he is dropping rocks into the sludge that’s percolating in his stomach.

“No, it’s because it’s you,” Jisung replies without taking his eyes off his food. Jisung then makes a blissful, satisfied noise as he eats his soup. He seems content with eating in silence and with the way his eyes are still fluttering with the weight of sleep, Minho suspects that it is going to be a lazy day.

There’s a sudden ache that steals Minho’s breath away. It’s the ache of a goodbye that's waiting in the horizon like clouds heralding a thunderstorm. _But Jisung is right here_ , he chides himself.

“How bad was the rain yesterday?” Jisung asks then takes a sip of water. “I woke up in the middle of the night because it got too cold and I heard the wind just roaring away.”

Minho fishes for the piece of tofu at the bottom of his bowl. “It was pretty bad.” He looks up and sighs. “The garden is wrecked just before…”

“The final harvest,” Jisung adds. His mouth twists in sympathy. “Shit, sorry, hyung. I can help you with the clean-up.”

Minho shakes his head as he drains the last of his soup. “No, it’s fine. I can handle it.” When he lowers the bowl, he finds Jisung looking at him with concern. “It’s just sad…” Minho taps his chopsticks on the rim of his bowl, “that it was destroyed right before I could harvest the remaining stuff. But, really, it's not like it's a great harvest anyway, the weather has been shitty this year.”

Jisung frowns immediately and straightens his shoulders. “I’m telling you it’s climate change! People are just like,” he pitches his voice lower, “it was never like this during my time. How can you come this close,” his index finger hovers a couple of centimeters above his thumb, “to understanding what is happening and still turn a blind eye?”

Minho laughs as he starts collecting their dishes. “Is this about the resort and the bonfire thing they have?”

“Yes!” Jisung scowls, stacking his bowls together. “The things they use for kindling – ugh, they make me hate those tourists more than the tourists themselves.” He grumbles under his breath and stands up, picks up his dishes. “I’ll do the dishes, hyung. Go check on the garden, you’re really twitchy right now.”

Minho smiles, but it is a pull of his cheek muscles upwards, stiff and stretched. It feels odd on his face and Jisung gives him a look, but doesn’t ask anything. He collects Minho’s dishes too, and with another kiss to his temple, he goes to the kitchen. Minho stares at his fingers and then presses them to his stomach. It does nothing at all to quell the tingling in his stomach.

He washes his hands and rinses his mouth before going to the kitchen to pick up the basket he uses for harvesting. Soft music plays from Jisung’s phone, twining with the steady stream of water from the tap and the squeak of sponge on ceramic. Minho tugs at Jisung’s earlobe and drags his fingertip over the back of his neck as he passes by him.

“Your fingers are cold!” Jisung complains instantly, raising his shoulder and rubbing his ear on it. “I hate you.”

“I’m sure,” Minho says, picking up the pink basket and letting it dangle from fingertips. “Is fawning over me your preferred way of showing hatred?”

Jisung ducks his head and says, “I don’t fawn over you. You’re dreaming.” He flicks water at Minho’s face and misses, so the drops of water end up speckling Minho’s sweater.

Minho shoves his hand under the hem of Jisung’s atrocious polo and thermal shirt combination, and curves it over the warm skin of his waist. Jisung shrieks and whirls around, presses his wet hands on Minho’s cheek. They scuffle right beside the sink and Minho has an upper hand because he is a touch less ticklish than Jisung is. A _touch_ , but that’s an advantage all the same. This means that he doesn’t start trashing like a worm the moment someone touches his waist or ribs.

But Jisung always plays dirty and he loops his arms around Minho’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. It’s a sloppy kiss, they’re both smiling a bit too widely and their noses bump against each others' because of the shitty angle. Jisung’s shoulders are vibrating with laughter and he snorts when their teeth clack. Minho rears back and shakes his head. “You’re terrible, Han Jisung.”

“Yeah, yeah, old man,” Jisung says in a high-pitched voice. “Take your raincoat. It looks like it’ll rain.”

Minho rolls his eyes at the jab and smacks Jisung’s ass on his way out of the kitchen. He can hear Jisung threatening to sue him all the way to the front door.

───────

Jisung was right. It does look like it’ll rain. The sky is grey and ridden with clouds that hide the sun. Still, Minho can feel the heat of the invisible sun, as muted as it is on his face and he walks to the garden with his shadow following beside him.

The garden isn’t that bad. It couldn’t have been of course, because most of the harvest is done and in truth, he was procrastinating on taking the last of the vegetables yesterday because he wanted to admire his tiny garden for a day longer, and put off preparing it for winter for as long as possible.

A bad decision obviously, he thinks, as he surveys the damage. The tarpaulins he had put up yesterday have fallen down and are muddy and soaked. He can see the roots of some plants sticking out. He sighs and takes his gardening gloves out of his pocket and looks up at the sky as he pulls them on. He can see the pinpoint light of the sun beyond the clouds, but it doesn’t burn his eyes immediately. Winter is just around the corner.

As he works under the open sky, the worries from the morning curl into themselves and wither away, leaving only a vague sense of foolishness behind. They seem stupid and dramatic now, but Minho is old enough to know that just because something is driven away by sunlight and by his mind turning to more important tasks, doesn’t mean that it will disappear forever. Still, the ice around his spine melts a little and it is enough relief that he can focus with both his mind and body in salvaging what remains of his little garden.

It is mid-day by the time Minho goes back to the house. He’s sweating a little and has his raincoat bundled under his arm. The clouds have dispersed some and it is brighter and warmer now than it was a couple of hours ago. The house is silent but when he bends down to unlace his sneakers, he can hear the clicking of a keyboard.

He can see Jisung’s mop of hair over the screen of his laptop as he passes by the dining table. He grabs a newspaper that he stocks on the top of his fridge for emergency purposes (and for Pingu to shred) and spreads it out on the counter before placing the harvested vegetables on it. They’re all tiny and malformed except for a couple of fat tomatoes, but seeing them all together makes him swell with pride. He takes a photo of them and pockets his phone before going upstairs to take a shower.

Pingu turns her head to look at him when he opens the bathroom door. She is sitting near the sink and stretches when Minho pets her between her ears. “Did you have fun doing your nightly parkour routine last night?”

Pingu indicates that she did by bumping her head against his hand and meowing. Minho grins and scratches her under her chin. She is in an obliging mood today, but he has to shower. He picks her up, puts her in the bedroom and races to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before she can enter again.

The water is scalding hot and the herbal soap that Jisung has taken a liking to recently smells wonderful as its scent blends with the steam. All the sludge and ice from the morning are a hollow memory, as distant as a dream.

───────

Jisung’s cooking and when Minho looks over his shoulder, he sees glass noodles boiling in a saucepan filled with water, and the soup from today’s breakfast bubbling beside it. The material of Jisung’s borrowed sweater is scratchy under Minho’s fingers. Minho squeezes his waist.

“Don’t you feel hot?” he asks and presses his lips to Jisung’s neck.

“No, it’s cold.” Jisung shuffles to the side and Minho steps away. “I don’t understand how you’re not feeling cold.” He reaches a hand behind him and plucks at Minho’s t-shirt. “I’ll die if I strutted around in a t-shirt.” He picks up a knife and starts cutting meat.

Jisung never preps for a meal and they usually argue over the pros and cons of it every time they cook together but Minho is not in the mood today. He takes another knife and a cutting board and cuts the ends of a carrot. “Just admit that you like my sweaters and sweatshirts.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Jisung jut chin out. “So what. You have good taste in them and I like them and you get really soft,” an amused chuff, “every time I wear them. You are such a clichéd boyfriend.”

Minho hides a smile as he peels the carrot. “You’re dreaming, Han-ah. And if I’m cliched for liking you in my clothes then why do you go along with it?” He arches his brow and drops a ringlet of carrot skin on Jisung’s hair.

Jisung takes the carrot peel off his head. “Oh, that’s because I like seeing you all soft and delighted. You’re so cute when you’re like that, baby~” He grins and drapes the peel over the curve of Minho’s ears.

Minho snatches the rest of the peels and drops them on Jisung’s head. His cheeks are burning and whatever he was going to say to tease Jisung has vanished in a puff of smoke. Jisung starts laughing and Minho growls as he takes a threatening step forward. “Stop laughing.”

“You’re so easy to rile up,” Jisung says as he dashes away from Minho’s path. “One _baby~_ and you’re done for.”

The vessel starts hissing and Minho curses as he sprints to the stove to switch it off before it boils over. The bubbles recede and he sighs in relief. “I hate mushy stuff,” Minho says as he turns off the burner on which the glass noodles are cooking. “I hate _you_.”

“Ouch. That’s two ‘hate yous’ in one day, hyung, I’m hurt,” Jisung fake sobs as he carefully steps closer to the countertop.

Minho gives him a flat look. “You sent me 27 ‘I hate yous’ just because I put a frog toy in your bag. Did you even consider how much that hurt me?”

Jisung’s eyes widen in disbelief and he shakes his head as he gapes at Minho. “It was _slimy_ and frogs are cute and all, but only at a distance. I almost dislocated my shoulder trying to get it away from me.”

Minho grins and ruffles his hair. “Making slime was one of my specialties when I was a child.”

“You’re a mess,” Jisung declares but his fondness is obvious in his words and his expression. He returns to cutting the meat. 

Standing next to him, Minho can see the lingering smile on his lips and the way his eyes are crinkled. Minho feels much the same, except he’s too struck by it to push it away and get back to work. It has frozen him and with that a familiar coldness creeps. He doesn’t realise he has been staring until Jisung raises his head and points at the carrots, his ears tinged pink.

“You can stare at me later,” he waggles his brows, “I’m really hungry now, but I’m handsome all the time.”

“If you’d prepped the vegetables before then we could’ve started cooking,” Minho argues, picking up the peeler again.

───────

Jisung polishes off his share of japchae in record time, so Minho offers him some of his portion. Jisung beams at him as he picks up his chopsticks again, his pout melting. “I love you.”

Minho sniffs and flicks Jisung’s nose. Pingu keeps an eye on them from the window sill, but her attention wavers when birds fly towards the birdfeeder in the garden. Minho doesn’t understand how half the day has passed already, but time behaves weirdly here, Minho has noticed, it always flies as if it has somewhere to be.

For everyone else, Minho had seemingly decided to move to a mountain town one day, and had not listened to reason. Minho suspects that they think that he is still suffering from a breakdown, but they’re polite and supportive to his face, so he doesn’t bother.

You cannot explain a decision that is a product of your experiences and your existence itself. You cannot explain every interaction, memory, and smaller decisions that all interlinked together and that fanned the flames of a childhood dream.

When he was a teenager, he had always thought of living in a mountain when he retired. In his early twenties, he had decided to live his dream immediately. So, here he is now, two years into his residence in the mountains, watching his boyfriend’s guilty, sheepish smile as he hurriedly flicks away the pieces of noodles that have fallen on the front of his sweater.

“I’ll dry clean it!” Jisung exclaims, wiping at the stain. “Sorry!”

“Oh no, how you have sinned,” Minho says drily though his eyes do twitch as he observes the stain. But he reminds himself, it’s just a stain. “It’s okay, I think it’ll wash away.”

Jisung’s mouth is still pulled down. “I’m sorry, hyung, I know you like your clothes to be super clean –”

“Yeah, but it’s just a stain. What’s the worst that will happen?” Minho interrupts, “it won’t wash out? That’s okay, I don’t wear it outside anyway.”

Jisung deflates in relief and plucks at his t-shirt. “I can wash it and put it up for drying after I eat. Oh! And I have to go to the town later to pick up some props for the training we’re doing next week.” He tilts his head upwards and Minho’s eyes fall on the marks on his neck. “I told my boss that we can buy this stuff when we land in the city, but no, she thinks that balloons are a scarce resource.”

“Don’t you hate balloons, Sungie?” Minho asks, hiding his smile behind his glass of water. “Is that why you have been complaining for so long?”

Jisung leans back against his chair and huffs a laugh. “They just burst unexpectedly and I get scared, you know? I don’t exactly want to be the…” he waves a hand in the space between them, “the centre of the joke? all the time. I kinda overreact, yeah, but it’s annoying when a bunch of strangers laugh at me in a professional setting.”

Minho mimics the way Jisung had startled the first time he had come over and Pingu had done her prowl and sniff routine. She had sneaked up to Jisung when he was distracted and had been smelling his ankle which had made Jisung jump sky high. “You’re so adorable,” he smiles wider when sees Jisung smothering his laughter behind his hand. “but, I agree, any joke in a corporate setting is shitty and mind numbing.”

“But it’s also the weird little exercise we’re going to do with them,” Jisung continues, his eyes twinkling with mirth, “it’s just… cringey, but what do I know? I’m just an Associate Trainer for now. Who knows how the promotion thing will go?”

“You’ve been working very hard, and you have experience, so I think it’ll go well.” Then Minho shakes his head, and shudders in fake disgust. “I remember the exercises you made us do…”

“Hey! I wasn’t even involved! Blame the others,” Jisung interjects, sitting up straight in his chair.

“ – but I eventually repressed those memories, so I’m sure even your new captive audience will too,” Minho finishes, snorting at the belligerent furrow of Jisung’s brows. When he’s actually angry, Jisung’s face goes smooth and flat, and his frowns are playful and well, cute. Minho drops his gaze to his plate where his share of japchae has long since cooled, embarrassed by the earnest adoration that’s cresting in his chest.

Jisung’s voice is soft when he says, “you’re in a better mood now, hyung.”

Minho eats a bite as he considers how to reply. It isn’t that he can’t talk about the thing that is bothering him, it’s just that he prefers working through things at least a bit before mentioning them. He can’t explain it, it’s just the way it has always been with him. He has a faint inkling about it, however, but he doesn’t want to grasp it just yet. “I’m still in a weird mood,” he says, finally, “but, I think it’ll go away soon.”

Jisung tilts his head and his hair flops over his forehead. It’s getting longer and Minho itches to tug at a lock of it. “Okay. I’m – I’m here,” Jisung rubs his neck then the back of his ear, “I’m just saying that – I’ll always listen to you.”

There’s a lump in Minho’s throat and it aches when he swallows. “Thanks, Sungie,” he says and he doesn’t try to hide the wonder in his words. He presses his toes against Jisung’s socked feet.

───────

Jisung leaves sometime in the early evening and Minho putters around completing his weekly chores. Pingu, perennially shy and suspicious of everyone, deigns to leave her perch after Jisung leaves and follows Minho around.

Even after nearly two years in this place, the sudden silence that cloaks his house surprises him. He supposes that it is always present, but when Jisung or someone else comes over, it is easier to ignore it. He can hear the rattle of his washing machine as he makes a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and the sound of wind blowing through the trees is so loud that he thinks if he listened hard, he would understand what the leaves are saying.

“Do you think that the leaves would be complaining about the cold too, like Jisungie?” he asks Pingu who is staring down at him from the top of the fridge.

She meows thoughtfully, her ears flicking back and forth.

“I think so too,” he tells her, relishing the warmth of the mug in his hands. “but he’s surprisingly warm, did you know? I think it’s all the layers he wears.” This is one of his favourite past-times, holding conversations with Pingu as he studies him from a distance and sometimes allows herself to be petted. “Do you want to say hi to your grandparents today?”

Pingu’s ears flatten and her fangs flash as she yawns, and she finishes it up with a squeak. Overcome by affection, he reaches a hand up, but Pingu steps away. “You’re the cutest thing ever!”

Pingu is unmoved, so he drops his hand and fishes out his phone from the pocket of the cardigan he’s wearing.

He winces as he jabs the call button and fiddles with his mug as he waits for the call to connect. His father picks up the phone and the moment he talks, Minho can tell that he fully intends to pursue the topic that they’ve been texting about for a week now.

After the pleasantries are done with, he begins. “You said that we’ll talk about… your relocation to the mountains. It’ll be two years since you left,” Dad says, “isn’t that enough time to – handle – _heal_ from whatever burnout happened?”

Minho tips his head back and stares at his ceiling. The heat from his mug is dissipating and he should drink his coffee before it cools. He drops his head and places it on the counter. “Appa, please –”

“We support you!” Dad interrupts. Minho can hear the noise of a T.V. programme in the background. It is too loud and Minho can’t concentrate. “ – and I understand that you wanted to get away and heal, but don’t you think it’s enough time? What’s there in the mountains anyway?”

Minho takes a moment to think, and his father rattles on, “like we told you, it’s about your decision to move to the mountains, of course, but it’s just – you’re such a bright, intelligent man, there are more opportunities here. In the city.”

“I like it here,” Minho says, scrambling to fill the silence before his father starts lecturing again, “and I have a well-paying job. What I want to know is why are you both so hell-bent on me coming back.”

Dad makes a dismissive sound, making Minho’s hackles rise. “I spoke to Kim Minjun…he’s our new neighbour. He works in a big IT firm – like you did – and he said that work from home types don’t get promotions.”

Minho’s feet have carried him to the window that looks into the dining area. It is grey again and he sees the trees swaying as a gust of wind blows just then. Upstairs, a shutter bangs against the wall. “I earn well and our CEO works from home too,” he replies, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. They’re stiff with tension. “And I want to continue living here for the time being.”

“Minho.” Dad’s voice is tinged with exhaustion now, “it will be two years in a few weeks. Your friends and family are here. This jaunt has gone on for too long.”

Pingu jumps on the window sill. Outside, a couple of crows are sitting on the roof of the house shaped bird feeder, and they are cawing. “You just think it’s strange because I moved to the mountains instead of another city. And because you think I’m eccentric.” The evenness in his voice has disappeared, but he doesn’t care. “No – let me finish. You think I’m throwing my life away because you refuse to see things from my perspective.”

A short silence. Minho had always thought that he would be close to his parents, and he is in many ways, but he has learned that talking to your parents as an adult means drawing a lot of hard boundaries.

The TV squawks out a familiar jingle and his dad sighs. “We just want the best for you. Anyway, there are only a few more months left till the quarterly appraisals, so even if you decide to move, it won’t be possible for you. Work hard, Minho.” He can hear his Mom murmur beside him.

“It’s not going to happen, Appa,” he says as firmly as he can, pushing past the instinctive deference. Saying no to his parents always prickles at that part of his conscience that still functions with conditioned morality, and he hasn’t managed to conquer the guilt of keeping his parents at a distance. “I’m happy here.” _Too happy_.

“Happiness doesn’t last, Minho. Pain always follows.” Minho can see the weary lines on his father’s face in his mind’s eye, and his stomach churns. “We’ve lived much longer than you. You know what lasts? Safety and security, and not a random adventure you cooked up in the middle of the night.”

Minho touches the windowsill and dust clings to his fingers. He’ll need to take out a new dust cloth. “Can you give the phone to Mom?”

Talking to his parents is a game of touching all the points of concern while running around in circles. His mother reiterates the same points before moving on to other things, and he already knows that next week, she’ll spearhead the conversation. He ends the call fifteen minutes later, and stands there, looking out of the water-streaked windowpane. The crows have flown away and his garden is blurred by the slanting lines of rainwater.

He goes to the kitchen to reheat his coffee. Pingu has disappeared and other than the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of rain envelops his house. That’s what the rain does here, it blankets him whole with no blaring horns or rumbling vehicles interrupting its hiss. It is easy to sink into the rain here.

For a moment, he’s so scared that his breath freezes in his throat, but the instant that should’ve been marked by his exhalation is instead punctuated by the beep of his microwave. Minho breaks out of his stupor.

Outside, dried leaves whirl with the wind and the rain. Minho’s thoughts mimic their motion: they go round and round and gently disperse.

───────

“Do you think that things are always cyclical in nature?” Minho asks the next day, one hand curled around the handle of a grocery basket and his other hand intertwined with Jisung’s hand. He’s ambidextrous, but right now he prefers one hand over the other. He wonders how Jisung will react to this line.

Jisung frowns and tilts his head as he leads the way to the dairy products aisle. “I’m not… sure? I mean, isn’t it too early for philosophy?”

Minho squeezes his hand. “No, I’m asking generally. What’s your opinion about it?”

Letting go of his hand, Jisung peruses the selection of organic milk. Minho stares at the rows of butter and cheese, his mind whirring. He had woken up in a mood today even though yesterday’s gloomy skies have dissipated after last night’s thundershower, and even though Jisung had sent him a such cute selca that he had goggled at it till his phone lit up again with another, decidedly not-cute one. It had been a nice shower at least.

“I think things are generally cyclical but the world is too complex and interlinked for it to be a simple circular process,” Jisung says as he tugs at Minho’s arm. He places cartons of milk into the basket when Minho raises his arm. “Like, seasons are supposed to be cyclical, but…” he gestures at the where the exits, “you can see that it’s a mess. Because, you know, climate change,” he grumbles.

Minho follows Jisung to the next aisle. “Hmm. Yes,” he replies, adjusting the collar of Jisung’s jacket so that half of his hair isn’t tickling his neck. “Things that grow invariably wither with the seasons.”

Jisung gives him a look over his shoulder. “Wow, okay. That was very melodramatic, hyung.”

“You’re a bad influence that’s why.” He picks up a packet of chips. “I wasn’t like this before.”

Jisung scoffs and whacks Minho’s shoulder. “Yeah, right. Which one of us quit our job so that the last day of the notice period coincides with their birthday, and then stormed all the way to the mountains to settle down?” He snatches a handful of colourful packets and drops them into the basket.

“You’re complaining as if it wasn’t the best day of your life when you saw me again,” Minho laughs, ducking another hit to his shoulder, “You looked star-struck. Like…” Minho opens his mouth and stares dazedly at a far-off point.

“Shut up!” Jisung screeches in a whisper, “I did not! You’re so full of yourself, hyung. Ugh, you’re ruining my peaceful Sunday morning grocery shopping trip with your narcissism.” He hurriedly steps aside when an old man tuts at them. “Ah, sorry, I’m done here,” he mumbles.

The old man’s grandchild excitedly points at a shelf, and Jisung drags him to the fruit section. “You always bluster when you’re embarrassed,” Minho comments, needling him just to see him puff up in indignation, “I bet you’re still sour that I didn’t recognize you immediately.”

Jisung groans and covers his face with a hand. “You’re insufferable.”

Minho pats Jisung’s head and says in the most patronizing tone he can manage, “I love you too, even if you totally embarrassed yourself the first time.”

Jisung elbows him in the stomach and Minho’s laugh echoes down the aisle.

───────

He idles outside the supermarket as he waits for Jisung to finish paying. Long after the conversation is over, Minho’s mind keeps running over what Jisung had said, ... _quit your job so that the last day of the notice period coincides with your birthday, and stormed all the way to the mountains to settle down_.

It’s the most simplified summary ever, and as he thinks about it, he realises that the two intervening years have sanded it down to this. A decision that had once seemed like he was moving a mountain along with moving to one has receded to the back of his mind. The emotions attached to it have frayed like a thread so that when time finally severs it, it’ll be a lone island floating in a sea of memory.

He has noticed that all his experiences follow a pattern. He begins something new, flushed with nervousness and anticipation, then he scopes out the new thing/place in a week or so, adapts to it and becomes familiar with it. He’s extremely adaptable and it’s a quality he loves about himself. But… he scowls, trying to link the amorphous, staccato thoughts and images to the fear piling on his shoulder. He can’t find the words and –

“Hyung?” Jisung’s brows are pinched in worry, “are you okay?”

Minho smooths his frown and smiles. “Yeah – uh… I was trying to understand something and I got frustrated.”

Jisung considers him for a moment and shrugs. “Okay. Do you want to get food?” He interlinks their hands together. His fingers are cold and he huddles closer to Minho when a gust of wind blows against them.

A spark of light that spills inward and inward. _I’m scared_ , Minho thinks, _I’m really scared even though I know it’s stupid._ Jisung is right here. _I’m_ right here, he adds as they exit the supermarket premises. Dry leaves crackle underfoot and rush towards his feet like a discordant army when the wind blows again. He focuses on the trees, still tall and holding on to the last of their greenness.

It is difficult to believe that these were the trees that had offered unending shade in summer. The seasons are cyclical. Everything is cyclical. 

“I’m ambidextrous but I prefer the hand that you’re holding right now,” he says instead, swallowing past the ache in his throat. He winks for added effect.

He savours Jisung’s half endeared, half disgusted eye roll more than he should, but that’s for him to know.

───────

Minho is a person inclined towards action and has always been so. If he had to pick one trait that has fueled his life and is responsible for where he finds himself at this moment, then it would be his need to do something, to move and to act.

Which is why he plasters himself to Jisung the moment they enter his flat. Jisung waddles to the kitchen to put away the takeout as Minho mouths behind his ear. He laughs as he stumbles and nearly falls. “I’m going to break my teeth at this rate.”

Minho huffs and detaches himself from Jisung’s back. His mind is clamoring with half understood fears and memories, with Jisung’s scent and the sounds he makes as Minho manhandles him into the bed and then crawls between his legs.

He can’t think – no, he’s thinking too much and he doesn’t want to. He’ll think later. Jisung’s here and he’s lifting his hips as Minho tugs his trousers down and his eyes are so dark and his lips are so pretty.

Later, he lounges on Jisung’s bed and eats a slice of pizza while Jisung scrolls through his phone. “I’ll have to use half of my concealer because you’re a vampire,” Jisung says, turning and waving the phone at Minho’s face. “My special, expensive concealer,” he sighs.

It’s on selfie mode, and a box appears around Minho’s face when the camera recognizes him. Minho adjusts his posture and then clicks the button.

Jisung makes an amused noise. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t turn on the back camera and take a photo of your nostrils,” Minho shoots back, taking another slice of pizza from the box on Jisung’s portable laptop table.

“How considerate of you, hyung,” Jisung says drily, “it’s not like you don’t have fifty of those already or anything.”

Minho makes car noises as he brings a slice towards Jisung’s mouth. “You’re the one who started it. Can’t handle it when the tables turn, hmm, Jisungie?”

Mouth filled with pizza, Jisung telegraphs his annoyance with his eyebrows. Minho grins, patting his puffed-out cheeks. “Wear turtle necks too, you look sexy in them,” Minho advises, still grinning like a shark. “And don’t worry, the marks aren’t very visible.”

Jisung swallows and wipes his lips with the back of his mouth. “I know, but – ugh I’ve been worrying so much about irrelevant things now – now that the appraisal cycle is near. I don’t really care much, but everyone’s tension is getting to me. Sorry.”

Minho raises a brow. “Why are you sorry? You can always tell me stuff.” Déjà vu, he thinks in the back of his mind. 

When Jisung sits up with his back against the headboard, Minho sweeps his gaze over his skin and is relieved that he’d made most of the marks on his chest and thighs. There are only a few on the base of his neck, towards the side. A turtleneck or even a collared shirt with a tie would definitely hide it, but there’s a flash of guilt anyway.

Jisung fiddles with his phone. “I told you last week, right? That they’re considering me for promotion? Well – the one I’m going on this trip with, she’s very… terrible with ratings? And she is always influenced by the recency effect.” He blows out a breath and then his eyes widen, “oh, it’s when you rate people on recent behaviour and not their overall performance.”

“I definitely used it to my advantage,” Minho jokes though he’s frazzled and his fingers are twitching, “my productivity was the highest just before appraisal.”

“Everyone does it, that’s why we teach supervisors about it,” Jisung’s mouth twitches, “not that it works. For example, me and my boss.”

Minho pouts, then thinks better and instead kisses Jisung’s shoulder before resting his cheek on it. “You guys have been sabotaging me even before I knew you.”

He can feel the vibration of Jisung’s laugh against his cheek. Gentle fingers run through his hair and Minho hums in appreciation. “Sungie, if they screw you over and don’t promote you then I think we should burn your company down.”

“Arson won’t look good on my CV,” Jisung replies, fingers winding through a lock of Minho’s hair.

“Hmm,” Minho says, wriggling down so that he can place his head on Jisung’s chest. He drags the tip of his finger over the waistband of Jisung’s boxers. “You don’t – you don’t mind it, right? The hickeys?”

A pause. Minho resists the urge to hide. He knows that Jisung would’ve told him if it was an issue, but Minho feels…sensitive all of a sudden.

Confusion is apparent in Jisung’s voice when he says, “no? I would have told you if I did.” He pauses again, making Minho feel foolish. “I was just joking, hyung,” he explains.

“Just making sure,” Minho hurries to say cheerily, his ears and neck heating with embarrassment. His mother always says that people who have nothing to occupy their minds create problems just to bide their time. Maybe that’s what Minho is doing, now that he has sunk into a routine. Letting irrational fears run amok because it feels – what? – safer than just going with the flow.

Jisung hums, but doesn’t say anything more. Minho listens to him make small noises of satisfaction as he eats another slice of pizza. Listens to the rustle of a napkin as Jisung wipes his fingers. Then Jisung places his hand over Minho’s head, his elbows resting against his neck. It is a soothing weight though he knows that this position will get uncomfortable soon.

Jisung’s chest is warm and he finds a perfect, lulling rhythm in the way he plays with Minho’s hair again. He winds a lock of hair around his finger, tugs and unwinds it before repeating the motions. Static flutters beneath Minho’s eyelids and the soft thump of Jisung’s heart against his ears drives him closer and closer to the precipice of complete sleep.

“Hyung, can I tell you something?” Jisung whispers. His voice reverberates in his chest as he speaks.

Minho snuggles closer. “No.” He tightens his grip around Jisung’s waist and tucks his fingers under the curve of his waist. “I was sleeping.”

“You weren’t and I’ll tell you in my best ASMR voice,” Jisung says, pinching Minho’s arm with his free hand.

“If this is a prank and you yell suddenly then I’ll kill you,” Minho warns, pinching his bare waist in retaliation.

Jisung squeaks and tugs harder at Minho’s hair. Minho digs his fingers into the skin of Jisung’s waist and drags them up to his ribs and yelps when Jisung screeches loudly.

“Stop it! Shit!” Jisung scrambles to stop the laptop table from toppling. “Oh fuck. Thank god, I just changed these sheets!” He straightens the table and his back then pouts at Minho. “Truce?”

Usually Minho never agrees to truces because he is, as Jisung says, a being that thrives on chaos, but he’s too tired to hold down Jisung and to defend himself in turn. “Yeah,” he assents then yawns. He gets up and makes his way to the bathroom to wash his hands and take off his contacts.

When he returns Jisung has switched off the lights and is cuddled under his blankets. He pats the space next to him, and this tiny gesture makes Minho’s heart swell. Minho knows that he’s sappy as hell underneath all the dourness he likes to project, but he can’t stop smiling like a fool when Jisung pulls back the blankets for him. Jisung cares and he shows it every day, even in inconsequential moments like this. Even if it doesn't mean anything to Jisung, it means a lot to Minho.

Minho cannot believe that he’s here. He slips in and leans over Jisung, kisses his eyelids and then kisses him softly. “I love you,” he whispers, pulling back.

“I love you too,” Jisung says, lips pulled in a goofy little smile. Minho bites his chin the moment he says it, to restore balance and stuff. He’s conscious about balance in all things.

Jisung sighs as Minho triumphantly flops down, dragging his share of the blanket to his chin. “You’re lucky that I indulge your vampiric tendencies…” he turns to his side and covers Minho’s mouth with his hand then snatches it back before Minho can lick his palm. “And no – no arguing back. I wanted to tell you what I’m thinking about before another twenty-minute-long interruption.”

“Fine,” Minho huffs.

Jisung drops a hand over Minho’s waist. “So, do you remember how we went on a hike this summer and we took the trail that has a thicker tree cover than the rest?”

Nodding, Minho laces his fingers behind his neck. “Yeah. Your ankles were hurting but you refused to rest till we got to the end of it.”

“My ankles are dumb,” Jisung complains immediately, “imagine being a joint in a bipedal being’s feet and then complaining about a little tumble that happened two hours before the trek. Like, what does it even want? Endless coddling?”

Minho turns his neck and blinks at Jisung. “I have no words.”

“Same,” Jisung agrees, “anyway, do you remember how the canopies of the trees were so lush and how they brushed against each other? It was so… nice that even in the middle of summer, the sun couldn’t touch my head all that much. And you know, it is even more beautiful in autumn.”

“You want to go there again?” Minho asks, already knowing the answer. Jisung is speaking in his, _‘I’m bracing myself for physical labour’_ voice.

Jisung grins, his fingers squeezing Minho’s waist. “Yeah! And I’m telling you this so that you can drag me because I’m sure I’ll try to make excuses next week.” His smile falters. “I’ll regret it, but that’s for Jisung from next week to handle.”

Minho snorts, amused. “You just gave me free pass to torture you. I hope you know that.”

“It was like a pocket dimension,” Jisung says, ignoring the threat. “When we were hiking, I mean. It felt like a world away from another world.” His voice is so soft that it seems like it is trembling in the wind. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

 _Pocket dimension_ . Cold fear sweeps through him, then clambers up his spine in time with the beat of his heart. “It’s my favorite memory, too,” he admits. _And I’m scared that that’s all it will be one day._

“It’ll be fun to go there again,” Jisung mumbles, pressing his nose against Minho’s shoulder. “Next weekend.”

“Next weekend,” Minho echoes.

───────

Some signs of work-related burnout are as follows:

  * Disengagement from work, persistent feelings of stress and frustration
  * Physical symptoms
  * Constant tiredness, exhaustion and fatigue
  * Reduced concentration, inability to focus, reduced work performance.



A week before Minho had gone on that fateful outbound training session that changed his life, he had been sitting in his cubicle with the words on his screen making him feel more understood than he had felt in _months_. He was burned out and everyone thought that it was a funk that would pass because everything is cyclical, right? Happiness followed by sadness, success followed by failure, productivity followed by a slump. Rinse and repeat.

He was _tired_. He was so tired and frustrated that he didn’t know what to do anymore. Every day he would tell himself that it was a new beginning, but the day would crawl, insipid and colourless, refusing to end and then ending too soon, and inviting another work day to take its place. He couldn’t concentrate and work felt as futile as physically counting the number of cells on an Excel sheet. Pointless, useless.

He was so shackled to weekends that he spent Sunday nights sleepless, waiting for his death knell as signaled by his alarm. Signing out was the favourite part of his workday. He couldn’t ever stop a smile from creeping across his face when he heard the muted beep of the machine when he swiped his ID to register the end of his working hours.

Sometimes, if inflicted by a pensive mood, he would think that it was kind of sad that he was the happiest when leaving. That he could leave without a backward glance.

To exult while leaving something behind, even if it was for a short time seemed like such an impoverished way to live.

───────

Then the notice for a training session had come. An outbound team building session run by a company situated in a mountain town that specialised in experiential training. He doesn’t remember why he hadn’t begged out of it. Filling in the blanks now, he thinks that the ‘mountain’ part had caught his eye. It had probably seemed like a chance to play out his favourite childhood dream.

Minho had gone and the training was completed, and the company had arranged a short hike for people who were interested. Jisung had been one of the staff from the company who had accompanied Minho’s team and they had struck up a conversation.

By the time they had reached the rest stop, Minho had made up his mind. “I’m going to move here,” he had said to Jisung.

Jisung had smiled, but it was polite and mildly disbelieving. “That’s great,” he had said, handing a can of soda to Minho.

Six months later, Minho had moved and settled in his cottage. Then a week later, he met Jisung again in the local pub.

───────

This Monday morning, as his coffee cools in the mug and Pingu looks like she is planning to swipe the mug off the table, he finds the words that have been evading him for the past two days.

He was happy when he left the city two years ago, and now that he’s here and happy to his core, he is afraid that he’ll lose it before he can comprehend what is happening. Even though he would be able to adapt to it, he doesn't want to, because he likes the way things are.

He grips his mug when Pingu extends a paw. She looks at him and meows, her paws batting his fingers. “No,” he says sternly, pulling the mug towards him.

Panic strangles him. It’s a vice around his neck and a tingle in his jaw. He sucks in a hissing, shallow breath, trying to stop his mind from spiralling. _Happiness never lasts – a world away from this world – everything is cyclical – this is a dream come true._

Pingu meows again and brushes her cheek against his fingers. He stares at the fuzzy grey colour of her fur, a feature that she shares with her namesake: a baby penguin in a cartoon show that Jisung had watched as a child. They later found out that they had mixed up the names.

He doesn’t want to leave her behind. He doesn’t want to leave his cottage, or his house shaped birdfeeder, or Jisung and the home he has made here. “Stop being irrational,” he growls and gulps down the last of his coffee which is a flood of disappointment because it’s so cold.

“What should I do, Pingu?” he asks, with more desperation that he would usually show.

Pingu meows because she’s a fucking cat, and here he is giving space to irrationality and letting it ruin his mood on a Monday morning. He scrubs his face with a hand then pushes his chair back. He takes the mug to the kitchen, washes his breakfast dishes then goes to shower.

The scent of the soap makes him yearn for Jisung, but he grits his teeth and tilts his neck towards the showerhead. Jisung has a busy week ahead of him, and he doesn’t want to trouble him with this… crisis that doesn’t contain a grain of sense.

He logs in at 9:30 A.M. and finds another crisis waiting for him.

───────

“ – so then we had to change a module completely because the client said that there had been a mix up with the location which makes it impossible to conduct the activities we were going to,” Jisung whines over the phone later that night. “Which means that the other modules are not linked and… yeah,” he sighs, “I don’t know how we’re going to be ready by Wednesday.”

Minho covers a yawn with his hand. “Sorry, I’m really sleepy. But that sucks, Sungie.”

“That’s fine, hyung. But I wish you would’ve been able to log off sooner,” Jisung says, tone switching to one of concern.

The water he’s heating for ramen starts bubbling then, and Minho balances the phone on his shoulder and ear as he rips open the packet and drops the noodles into the saucepan. “The deadline is really soon and the testers raised a tonne of issues, so I had to handle the client, the management and my team. That’s what took a lot of time,” he sighs.

Jisung makes a pained noise. “Ah, hyung, that’s so stressful. Are you – are you fine?” he asks, carefully, as if he isn’t sure if this is the right time to ask.

Minho pinches the seasoning packet and shakes it so that the contents converge at the bottom before opening it and pouring it into the saucepan. “I’m fine,” he says, snipping another packet, “I was a bit frazzled at first, but…” he stirs the noodles with a ladle, “I took a deep breath and tried to do that thing… focusing on the solution rather than circling around the problem again and again.”

“I’m glad, hyung.” Minho can hear the smile in Jisung’s voice. “I wish I was there to see you in your sexy leader mode.”

Minho barks a laugh. “My sexy leader mode involves drinking too much coffee and not washing my face even once in ten hours.” He sweeps a hand over his nose and grimaces at how oily it is. “Anyway, don’t push yourself too much, okay? Rest up before you leave so that you can give your hundred percent.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” is Jisung’s succinct reply and it makes Minho giggle as if he had just said a great joke.

From her spot on top of the fridge, Ping meows, unimpressed at being woken up by such an unnecessary noise. But he can’t stop laughing and it is because of the coffee and exhaustion swirling through his body at ten-thirty at night. “ _Ugh_ ,” he mocks, “but try to pace yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Jisung says with a groan. “I don’t think I’ll be able to see you before I leave, hyung. With your mess and my mess – I don’t think we’ll be able to find the time.”

Minho switches off the gas and without a flame to give them voice, the bubbles subside. In the silence, he can hear the wind teasing the leaves. It melds with the hum of electricity and with the rasping sound of Pingu grooming herself. “I’ll try, but it is difficult,” Minho admits, rubbing his forehead. It is sore with the number of times he has brushed his fingers over the same spot today.

“That’s alright,” Jisung says through a yawn, “we’ll video call or something.”

It is difficult to transfer ramen to a bowl with one shoulder hindered like this. Minho struggles for a few seconds before he remembers that mobiles have this feature called speakerphone. He switches it on and places it on the countertop.

“I can’t wait for Friday evening.” Jisung’s voice is raspy in the way it gets when he is sleepy. “I love the welcome back dinners you make for me, baby~”

Minho flushes and places the saucepan back on the burner with more force than necessary. “Of course, I’m the one cooking it.” He’s trying to be snooty, but he suspects that Jisung can hear how flustered he is anyway because he chuckles. Damn him for using that blasted endearment. He opens a drawer and takes out a pair of chopsticks.

Pingu leaps down from the fridge to the counter and brushes across his hand as she jumps to the floor. Steam curls from the bowl, and he can see nothing outside of the kitchen window. It’s a moonless night, and with his cottage surrounded with boundless darkness, it feels like he is suspended in a void. 

“Jisung,” he says, “I’m really happy.”

“Mmm,” mumbles Jisung, “that’s great.”

“I’m happy with my life,” Minho continues and touches his chest where his heart thrums to the beat of a foreboding message. “And I’m happy with you.”

Jisung sounds mariginally awake, but his voice is hushed, “I’m happy too,” he says, as easy as breathing.

Like a seed, relief buries itself deep within his mind. It’s barely a glimmer, but the possibilities that it holds… safety, security and the promise of growth, Minho thinks, are all he ever wanted.

───────

On Wednesday night, Jisung packs the last of his stuff with Minho watching from the perch Jisung has given to his phone. The nightstand doesn’t provide a good view of anything except for his ass, but Minho can’t find anything to complain about. He says so to Jisung, and gets muted for his trouble, so he spams him with messages until Jisung unmutes him.

“You’re a menace,” Jisung says, bending with his hands on his knees till he is eye-level with the camera, “please just go back to ogling my ass.”

“That’s what I was doing in the first place!” Minho protests.

His hard work is for naught because his phone buzzes with a work call. He wishes Jisung a safe journey and hangs up. He texts him again when he’s done, and gets a photo of Jisung bundled in his raincoat.

Two days pass quickly. It rains intermittently and his team makes progress with the software. Pingu swings between affection and sheer disapproval depending on her mood, but overall, she spends most of her time keeping an eye on Minho.

Jisung updates him with great enthusiasm on the first day, but by Friday morning, Minho picks up on the terse edge to his messages. He doesn’t push because Jisung doesn’t like talking about personal things at work. Minho has always admired that about him, his ability to keep his work and personal life separate. Afterall, Minho had to move to a mountain to learn that.

He prepares a marinade for chicken while he takes a break for lunch and checks his stock of beer. There’s enough to get drunk, if they want to. The rest of the day passes in meetings and in staring at his laptop till his eyes glaze. He logs off on time with only a flicker of guilt.

Jisung arrives while Minho finishes frying the last batch of chicken. He looks wilted and his lips are chapped and sore, like he has been picking on the drying skin. Minho kisses him and then helps him out of his coat.

“Can we eat on the porch?” Jisung asks, already unbuttoning his shirt. His undershirt is streaked with sweat.

Minho shuffles closer and cups his cheek. Jisung’s eyes are heavy with exhaustion. “Is everything alright?” he says, thumbing at Jisung’s eyelid.

“I’ll tell you after I shower,” Jisung says, pushing his cheek into the hollow curve of Minho’s hand. “I’m gonna steal your sweater.”

“Take whatever you want,” Minho replies, heart clenching at the way the overhead lights catch the deep brown of Jisung’s eyes.

Minho’s fingers sting as he carries bottles of beer to the porch. Pingu follows him and sits on the footstool. “Are you here to welcome Jisung, or for the food?” he asks her as he sets the bottles down on the low table with a clink. It’s not exactly an ergonomic set-up, but the breeze is cool and the warm yellow light from the lamps make it look cosy. At least, he hopes it is, because Jisung loves cosy things and this might make him smile.

He waits for only fifteen minutes before he hears Jisung’s footsteps creak towards the direction of the porch. Pingu raises her head, but doesn’t run away the moment she sees Jisung. Jisung collapses on the sofa with a sigh, and the scent of his shampoo wafts towards Minho.

“I don’t know if I will be able to come for the trek tomorrow,” Jisung murmurs as he leans down and takes a bottle. “I’m just – not in the right headspace.”

“Alright.” Minho taps Jisung’s knee and then his own. Jisung huffs a laugh, but obliges and carefully puts his feet on Minho’s lap. “Did you notice that Pingu is much closer to you now than she usually is?” he asks, then takes a sip of his beer. He doesn’t bother massaging Jisung’s feet. He’s ticklish there and tends to scream at the light touch even while wearing socks.

Jisung blinks then darts a quick glance at Pingu. His eyes spark with genuine pleasure for the first time. “Ah! I hope she deems me worthy soon because I’ve been saving up a lot of kisses and head pats for her.”

“We’ll conduct a ceremony,” Minho says, licking the seams of his mouth. “With those sword on shoulders thingy. You will get the title of Han Jisung, Certified Member of Pingu’s Inner Circle.”

“You should’ve stopped ten words ago, hyung,” Jisung says, face fixed in a deeply unimpressed expression. The yellow light gives him a soft, muted look and makes his wet hair shine. He hasn’t shaved yet, and he scratches at his neck as he tilts his head upwards to a long pull of beer.

Minho’s breath hitches and he glances at his garden to think of something other than this moment, to know something other than the luminesce of his affection. “Stop snarking and eat your food.” His words are hushed and they don’t register in his mind. His eyes are burning, so he clears his throat and finishes off the rest of his drink and leans forward to get the food.

Jisung bends sideways, places his bottle on the ground then accepts the plate Minho hands to him. “Thank you for this, hyung.” His smile is so sweet.

The shitty garden lights that he had put up last year don’t illuminate anything other than their shadows. The food is a burst of flavours on his tongue, and it surprises him for a moment, this sensation of something beyond the push and pull within his chest. There’s a gentle mist drifting with the wind now. “Are you sure you won’t freeze sitting here?” he asks Jisung.

Jisung places his plate on his lap and tugs at his sweater. “Yeah – this is your thickest sweater and I’m wearing a thermal shirt too,” he replies, mouth full. “One day I’ll steal all your sweaters.”

“You can take all of them,” he says, more seriously than he intends. He remembers a quote that he had read once, _I belong to moments and not to people_. Minho doesn’t believe that he belongs to people either, but he belongs to this moment and he thinks that Jisung and Pingu belong to it too. This is, afterall, what he has found in the mountains. 

I’m here. Jisung’s here. We’re here.

And the hands of a clock will sweep the moment away in its unrelenting ambition to chase itself across the landscape of time.

“Do you want to talk about your work trip?” he asks instead of letting fear pull him into its fold. “You looked really… you were really withdrawn.”

Jisung hums as he shifts, dragging himself up from his slouching position. “It’s dumb – I…”

“Shut up,” Minho whacks Jisung’s ankle, “how many times do I have to tell you that if it is bothering you then it’s not dumb?” The hypocrisy of his words strikes him then and he swallows. A hole on the toe of Jisung’s sock makes a patch of skin visible, and Minho pinches it, while simultaneously straightening his shoulders. “I have something to share which seems dumb to me too.”

“If this is another one of your conspiracy –”

Minho huffs in annoyance. “My conspiracy theories don’t sound dumb! And stop changing the topic…” he laughs, covering his mouth, “can we have one discussion without arguing about inconsequential things for ten minutes?”

Jisung snorts. “Never. But anyway – I think I was overreacting a little, definitely and I think I was hungry too, but basically – you know Sunjung noona? – she’s really good with politics and stuff… and well, I’m not – but anyway…” He tugs at the collar of his sweater then pushes his hair back, rubs his cheek.

Focusing on Jisung’s face, Minho notices the way his eyes have sloped downward. He keeps silent, and listens to the trees rustle with interest. He’ll miss the leaves when it’s winter. Bare branches make creepy noises in the wind.

“She said that they’re considering someone else for the promotion,” Jisung continues, voice thin, “it’s basically a mix of politics and the shitty rating system that doesn’t allow for any sort of nuance.” An audible inhalation, and then like he’s reading out from a presentation, Jisung says, “Sunjung noona looked really sad and pitying – and that’s what affected me, I guess. I don’t like being pitied.”

He has never found a way to soothe people about workplace problems that doesn’t involve blaming other people and the system. That’s what is needed sometimes, he knows, but that isn’t empathy, is it? “Oh, Sungie,” he murmurs.

“I felt humiliated and then, even worse, I was also relieved.” Jisung looks at Minho and his face is smooth except for his eyes that keep darting everywhere in agitation. “I mean – this is honestly the first time – well, it’s only my second job – that I’ve liked what I’m doing and I know that becoming a Senior Associate and stuff is good, but I want to continue in this role for longer.”

Jisung sighs and tips his head back, studying the roof of the porch. “Then I felt like a loser because who doesn’t want to get a promotion and go forward,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, “I felt so weird for resisting when Sunjung noona suggested ways to – it doesn’t matter. I felt like there was something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Minho counters then licks his lips. “It’s your career, Jisung. And… this is based on my personal experience, mind you, but this endless toil for success nearly ruined me.”

“I know.” Jisung drops his feet from Minho’s lap, straightens himself, hands clutching his plate. “But, hyung, everyone’s always like… change is good. Change means growth and stuff, and I’m here, basically saying ‘hell yes, give me that stagnation.’”

It feels like a lance to his gut, even though it’s not. _Stop making it about yourself_ , he snarls to himself, but it is drowned in the cacophony of his thoughts. His hands tremble a little when he picks up another bottle and the bottle opener.

Jisung puts his plate on the table, squeezes Minho’s hand with cold fingers before he stands up. “I know it is about balance – that you need to lay your roots just as much as you need to… fly, I guess. Metaphorically speaking.” Leaning against the railing, he tugs at his hair. “Yet, I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like, I’m wrong somehow.” He laughs wetly, “all this over a bloody promotion.”

“Work is an important part of life,” Minho mumbles to the bottle label. He wrinkles his nose when he realises that it’s a flavoured one. “It’s not work-life balance, it’s more about integration.” He’s talking in circles. “You should do what feels right to you, Sungie. Think about the long-term and pick what…”

“It’s not about doing!” Jisung says, “okay, maybe it is a little bit, but mostly it is about the way I feel. Like, I’m settling, you know. I’m happy where I am, but I’m settling for what I have.”

Minho swallows a mouthful of beer and his throat aches. “Why do you – why does happiness feel like settling?”

Jisung is quiet for a long time. Or for what feels like a long time because Minho’s stomach is churning and his chest is tight. He rubs his forehead with chilled fingers.

“I think because we like to believe that there’s… more happiness, the socially approved kind of happiness the higher we go and that if we strive enough, we’ll get there,” Jisung says finally. His arms are crossed and he looks adorably comical because of his boxy sweater contrasting with his slim sweatpants. “I don’t know.”

How is he already half-done with his beer? Mist creeps like filaments past the bars of the railing. The beer is keeping Minho warm, but Jisung’s socks have holes in them. He stands up, “let’s go inside. It’s cold.”

───────

The bright lights in the kitchen are disorienting. Having established that they’re not hungry, Jisung looks for a container. Minho has used up most of them for his meal prep.

“I was taught that things are cyclical. That if you’re happy now then you’ll be sad next,” he says, leaning against the fridge. “I don’t believe that it’s in some sort of cosmic sequence like that, but it’s deeply ingrained in me.”

Jisung turns and flashes a tired smile. His half-dried hair is frizzy, and he’s so _cute_ like this. “People have fucked up beliefs about happiness, right?”

“But the thing about going up in life to find happiness is true in my case,” Minho jokes, draining the last of his beer and then moving to drop it in the recycling bin. “I’ve been thinking about happiness a lot lately.”

“I kinda guessed,” Jisung replies, making a delighted sound when he finds a dusty green container in one of the unused cabinets. He rolls the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows as turns on the tap. He hisses when the water touches his finger, “you usually don’t make proclamations or ask philosophical questions unless there’s something on your mind.”

He’s talking about the ‘I’m happy’ thing that he’d said a couple of days back, then. “I – I like the way things are and I’m really happy, Sungie.” Minho shifts his weight from foot to foot, suddenly at a loss about what to do with his limbs. “And I was afraid that all of this would change. That it would end because – I don’t know… because that seems like a logical follow-up, and I know that I’ll adapt, probably. But I don’t – I’m scared that it’ll come to that. ”

Jisung turns the tap off. Droplets of water glisten on his fingers, and Minho focuses on it, tries to think of something other than _hurt, hurt, hurt._ “I want things to be the way they are,” he repeats, “I want us to grow together, I want that cycle – not a ‘sudden change wrecks your life and you gotta deal with it’ rinse, repeat cycle.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m not making sense.”

The cloth Jisung is using to dry the container rasps against plastic. “You’re so brave, hyung,” Jisung says, “I’ve always thought that.”

Minho blinks, cheeks flushing. “What?”

Jisung is ridiculous with his messy hair, huge sweater and a box and towel clutched between his fingers. His eyes are so bright. How can Minho look away? “You are,” he says, simply. “And I’m happy too, and I want to grow with you,” he rubs his neck, “if that’s an invitation or something.”

The heat that Minho’s skin generates is _scalding._ Everything is too hot, in fact, his chest, his ears, even his toes. “What – yes... but. I don’t want you to settle or…”

“Hyung,” Jisung interrupts and he places the container on the counter, cups Minho’s cheeks with hands that feel like icicles. “I just said that people have fucked up beliefs about happiness.” His thumbs brush over Minho’s cheekbones. “And a wise man once told me that I should do what I think is right and…think about the long-term.”

This is change happening right before his eyes, Minho thinks as he watches Jisung’s smile turn bashful then tender. A change as immense as the seasons changing. Minho’s eyes burn again and this is – this is his pocket dimension. “This is my world within a world,” he blurts before he can stop himself “I – I’m not saying that you’re my world because that’s too big a burden… and a little unhealthy, I feel, but you’re a massive part of it and…”

“Hyung, I understand,” Jisung laughs. He kisses Minho and laughs again. It’s a full-bodied sound that echoes in the silence, echoes in the sudden, soothing emptiness of Minho’s mind. “I would still like a world away from this world, sometimes. Especially from work and stuff.” He snorts loudly then covers his mouth. “Sorry. Just – we can never stay on track, can we? We went from my promotion troubles to our relationship thing.”

Minho winces and his heart pangs with guilt. “I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have changed the topic like this.”

Jisung smiles, soft and easy. “That’s the direction our conversation took. And anyway, we have plenty of time to talk about it later.”

“Do you mean when we go on the trek tomorrow?” Minho asks, snickering at the pained expression on Jisung’s face. He leans forward and kisses Jisung, a hand winding through his damp hair and the other sneaking under his shirt.

───────

“I think people sometimes conflate changes in the roots with stagnation,” Minho mumbles, later that night, “’cause they see that the crown is unchanging or whatever. The lack of external change doesn’t mean that there is no internal change, Sungie. ”

Jisung hums and snuggles closer to Minho’s chest. “I have no context, but your voice is very pretty.”

Minho briefly pinches Jisung’s stomach, then soothes the spot. “I mean that as long as we… um.” His mind blanks as sleep pushes all coherent thought to the edges of his consciousness, “time brings about change,” he says, “there are cycles but we have to… choose.”

“I think we can talk about it tomorrow,” Jisung replies, yawning. “I don’t have the energy to understand.”

There’s a fuzzy weight on his feet. He freezes then forces himself to relax when he realises that it’s just Pingu. He hides a smile and hopes that he doesn’t accidentally kick her in his sleep.

The dead silence makes the rain sound louder than it is. The hum of water against the shutters is characteristic of a drizzle. With the mist he had seen today, Minho knows that they’re racing headlong into winter. He’ll have to take out his winter bedding soon. Or maybe not, he had seen a new weighted blanket stuffed haphazardly in Jisung’s closet. He has a feeling that it’s his birthday gift.

Happiness may never last for long, Minho thinks, but it seems like it’ll at least last till tomorrow and for a few weeks after that. And that's enough for now.

───────

As a child, vacations to mountains were his favourite. More than the grandeur and beauty of the mountains – as impressive as they were – what had impressed him was the way they made him feel small. Small in a good way, like their looming façades were looking over him, protecting him, and offering him shelter. His parents had only smiled and reminded him to dress warmly.

But that seed of thought had lain dormant in his mind for years, and had blossomed in the acrid, aching scorch of his burnout. He had known that mountains don’t actually offer shelter, or protection and had instead found it for himself like an adult, but that’s not the point. The point is that he has found a place that he’s sad to leave, and delighted to come back to. Home.

He measures out rice with a cup and then pours water into the vessel with it. He uses his fingers to get the grains that stick to the sides of it. Looking out of his window, he sees that many of the branches are barren, and the leaves that were green last week are slowly taking a tinge of yellow and are stark against the deep grey of the clouds. He makes a note to clean his garden and prepare it for the oncoming winter, so that it'll be easier to plant stuff in spring. 

It’s sad to see the bare branches, but there will be an abundance of greenness again. That’s their cycle after all. He switches on the rice-cooker and takes out eggs from the fridge. Jisung and him have a lot to discuss today, a lot to figure out.

Fear creeps down his spine as he cracks eggs into the skillet. What they had insinuated yesterday is… he shakes his head. He’ll think about it when Jisung wakes up.

Pingu watches him from her spot on the fridge, licking her chops after her breakfast. Minho switches off the stove, takes out the plates and bowls. He’s heaping rice into a bowl when Jisung latches onto his back. “I told you to wake me up,” he complains, his minty breath wafting over to Minho’s nose. He presses a kiss to Minho’s jaw.

“You were snoring so much that I thought you’ll wake yourself up,” Minho replies, patting Jisung’s hand that's slung over his waist. He yelps when Jisung tickles him. “Ahh! Stop, you brat!” He drops the ladle on the counter and tries to squirm away.

“I don’t snore, stop lying!” Jisung demands, fingers skating over Minho’s neck.

Minho breaks free of his grip and unleashes his attack. Their laughter echoes in every corner of the kitchen, and makes Pingu meow in irritation. Minho drags a giggling Jisung to the living room. 

The eggs are cold and rubbery by the time they come back to the kitchen. “Look what you’ve done,” Minho says, pointing at the food, “this is all your fault.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling so widely that Minho can see all his teeth. “Yeah right. Just reheat it, you big baby.”

Minho whacks his stomach and Jisung pinches his butt in retaliation. They eat in the kitchen with Pingu keeping an eye on them with her usual disapproving glare. Roots grow in Minho’s heart, or maybe they were already there and he’s just feeling the deep, steady weight of them now. He is giddy with laughter and affection and whatever fear had assailed him earlier is forced to make space for his audacious fondness.

He isn’t even embarrassed by his sappiness. How can he focus on anything else when Jisung is right here?

**Finish.**

**Author's Note:**

>  _I belong to moments. Not to people_ is a quote by Virginia Woolf.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! I would love to hear your thoughts and comments!
> 
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